


Singing at the Stars

by prettybadmagic



Series: Lady of Sow's End [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, And some pretty dirty dirty talk lol, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Good girl sansa, Hands, No fluff I'm allergic, Praise Kink, Sansa is 18, Sensitive Brute Sandor, Size Difference, Smut, This is story is dedicated to Sandor's hands, Very good girl Sansa, lots and lots of praise, sandor is 34, westerosi cultural revolution AU bc why the hell not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybadmagic/pseuds/prettybadmagic
Summary: Sansa Stark is a first year student at Oxcross College fresh from the Sevenschool, the most prestigious prep school in all of Westeros. She uses her newfound independence to explore the nearby city of Lannisport, where she stumbles across a neighborhood unlike anything she's ever seen.Sandor Clegane is a veteran of the Kingsforce, who came to Sow's End to escape the depravity of military life. He's the guitarist in Heartsbane, a little-known folk metal band in the underground western punk scene.When Sansa finds herself at one of Sandor's shows, she feels an immediate attraction to him. Can a noble girl from the north charm a disillusioned soldier near twice her age, or is Sansa in over her head?
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Lady of Sow's End [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070756
Comments: 141
Kudos: 297





	1. The Hound

**Author's Note:**

> _Title inspired by Half Waif - Ordinary Talk_
> 
> Do you want to read an anachronistic clusterfuck of a story where Sansa is a doe-eyed first year at a premier girl's college and Sandor is a surly guitar player? A world where Melisandre is a popstar and the elite tier soldiers are still called knights? The rules are made up and the points don't matter in this ham-handed reimagining of Westeros. Let's pretend the 60s, 70s and 80s are smashed together and dipped in medieval imagery, because why the fuck not? Sansa is a goddamn princess, Sandor is the knight she deserves, and yes, there WILL be banging. 
> 
> That said, it’s still pretty moody, and I had to add a little bit of a burn (lol kms), so parts 1 and 2 set the stage for part 3 - Smut City, USA. Read on if you want to endure a lot of foreplay, copious checking-in and the gratuitous use of the phrase good girl because you know, deep down, Sansa is a very good girl. 
> 
> I have been working on this for almost two months now (eek)(I have literally reread the first four ASoIaF books since starting fml) and I could honestly spend an infinity trying to perfect it. 
> 
> Buuuut at some point, you just have to get the damn thing over with. So here’s the Damn Thing. 
> 
> Enjoy 😬
> 
> **This story was updated on 12/24/2020 - the series continues with Another Nova.**

Sansa wavered at the train door. Steam rolled over the shiny black toes of her boots—thrice worn, tender on her heels. People shouldered past, casting hostile glances as they went. She was in their way; she knew. And still she stood, frozen, until a cool voice sounded out across the chambered platform. 

"The M Line to Lannisport is now departing. Please stand clear of the closing doors." 

At that, Sansa bounded up into the cabin, barely managing to save her backpack from the apathetic crush of the door. Another choice, made. She gave herself a few seconds to regain her poise: tuck in flyaway curls, smooth her skirt, and of course, smile. Then she turned and made her way down the aisle. 

The M Train was rather dim and reeked of mildew. Not the L Line, to be certain. White tubes of fluorescent light flickered over a man in a shabby suit on one end and a hunched old crone knitting a scarf on the end opposite. Sansa put herself on a free bench in the middle, careful to put her back towards the man. His face was tired and lined, and his eyes gleamed bright when he laid them on her. She didn't want to meet them again. She set her backpack on the spare seat at her side, just in case he made a move.

The train rolled away from the station. Droplets of rain that had run down the window now flew horizontally, back towards the shrinking lights of Oxcross. 

Sansa had the sudden urge to shrink down, make herself small, but she forced her spine to straightness. She would be watched, now. The streets would be full of more of those men in shabby suits and worse. She would fare much better on campus, sequestered in Plumm Hall, with nothing but her harp and songbooks to keep her company. 

But this time she had a purpose, she reminded herself. 

Sansa reached into her backpack to retrieve that wrinkled sheet of paper, the reason for her ill-advised adventure. She peeked between the folds to reassure herself nothing had changed. The knot in her chest unwound at the sight. 

On yellowed paper, in elaborate, black-inked medieval calligraphy, the word _Heartsbane_ was set above an image of three snarling black dogs, with a ghostwhite weirwood weeping blood in the background. Below the dogs, written in smaller but no less elaborate script, was _Hour of the Crow, 22nd day of the Ninth Moon, Deepwood Den._

Two weeks ago Sansa had seen the flyer pasted on a crumbling stone wall in one of the more... _rugged_ parts of Lannisport. It was a neighborhood of decrepit stone buildings, sharp scents, and chaos. There were lean-to markets, card games and ball games played in the street, and everywhere, music. Most shockingly, there were anti-feudal bookstores and tea shops, decorated with images of the weirwood, the worker's hammer and sickle, and the flaming heart of R'hollor—distasteful symbols. Forbidden ones. 

But another bookshop owner had directed her to Firestorm Books, insisting that they carried a copy of _Women of the Free Folk: A Spearwife's Tale_. A book she had remembered from her father's study. Sure enough, she found it. She smiled and made small talk with the shop clerk who had more metal and ink on their face than flesh, then wiled the afternoon away reading and sipping a surprisingly bright cup of green tea.

Sansa had never seen a neighborhood quite like it. Her mind humming with caffeine, she ambled the tangle of compact streets. She poked her nose in musty tattoo shops and jewelry stores. She wondered about a grandiose, seven-sided building. A would-be sept, if its facade wasn't full black, its windows shuttered to withhold the heavy throb of bass. Sansa found a store that sold only rope and leather, and a lingerie store that sold scraps of lace masquerading as undergarments. A pair of lace stockings tempted her, but the shopkeeper gave her a rude look, so she left empty handed. 

Just beyond this shop Sansa saw the wall, ten yards of stone plastered in peeling layers of worn flyers. A glimmer of red caught her eye—blood red sap dripping from a weirwood. 

“Heartsbane,” she whispered to herself as she traced a finger over the immaculate calligraphy. Sansa was certain it was a band of some sort, though nothing she recognized. She knew so little of modern music, sadly. Uncle didn’t like music much at all, and only the records of the greatest bards were approved for listening at the Sevenschool. 

But this illustration was special. It looked as though it had come straight from the dusty pages in a book of fairytales, from the age of chivalrous knights and swooning princesses. And the weirwood—that was a forbidden symbol, something taboo, shameful, or so Sansa had been taught. Father had believed in the Old Gods, as all Starks had, but it had been half a decade since the last weirwood burned. Not even botanists could use them for study. They were simply gone. 

Sansa scanned the other posters. One read _Justice for Amaya_ with a picture of a beautiful Summer Islander dressed in Westerosi fashion. Another read _End the Lannister Regime_ and detailed the meeting spot of a local anti-feudal group. One simply said _Keep Sow’s End Weird_ , and Sansa could only guess that she must be in Sow’s End, this untamed corner of Lannisport full of all things improper. 

Sansa lingered a moment longer, threw a quick glance over her shoulder, then impulsively tore the Heartsbane flyer from the wall and stashed it in her bag. She hurried out of Sow’s End, all too conscious of the stares that followed her. She knew she didn’t belong here, amongst rebels in tattered clothing emblazoned with anti-war slogans, their hair colored in wild shades and cut into unfathomable shapes. 

As Sansa rode the train back to Oxcross that day, the flyer seemed to glow from within her backpack like a stolen ruby. The thought of the weirwood guarded by three vicious hounds made her palms sweat and her heart race. It wasn't proper, these sigils of long dead Gods on full display. An entire war had been fought to prove it so. A war that uprooted Sansa's life in the North, and gave her a sheltered southern existence, dictated by the Seven. The _true_ Gods. 

But the war was over. Spring had come, and Sansa was a wildflower, far from home. 

The train jerked to halt, and she braced herself on her seat, taking care not to crush the paper in her damp grasp. 

“Now arriving at Ironrod Road. Next stop, Butcher’s Station,” came the voice of the automated conductor. 

Sansa’s heart pounded in her ears. She was sticky with anxiety, her nerves frayed like poorly hemmed cotton—Butcher’s Station was her stop. 

She had studied her map of Lannisport devoutly for the past week, determined to reach Deepwood Den without issue. She had spent plenty of time in the city during the daylight hours, but she had only once stayed past dusk. She told Jeyne that she would be seeing a play tonight at the Lionheart Theatre, a modern rendition of the Bear and the Maiden Fair. 

In other words, Sansa had lied. 

But she knew what she wanted. 

When the conductor called her stop, she gingerly folded her Heartsbane poster and tucked it between two composition books in her bag, then exited the cabin, her head held high. 

Sansa had never been to Butcher’s Station. It was darker than the other train stations, lit by a single bulb that dangled from a weathered wooden crossbeam. Thick clouds of fog rolled in on all sides, so she squinted to see the street signs. Unfriendly eyes clung to her—she knew the feeling from court—and shone bright white in every dark corner of the platform. 

Perhaps it was her skirt. She gave it a demure tug, though nothing could be done to make it longer now. A risky move, her pleated miniskirt that flared from her hips and barely covered her buttocks. But it was made of the finest black wool, and shorts skirts were all the rage. Sansa had long legs like Mother. They deserved to be seen, even if they glowed like the moon and caught every curious eye. 

The moon was very pretty, and much beloved besides. 

Thankfully, Sansa spotted the street that would take her where she needed to go: Hock Street. It was marginally brighter than the station. Dim streetlamps guided the cobbled path with occasional support from bustling storefronts. Taverns burst with yellow light and the sticky scent of ale, while drunkards trawled up and down the walk like untethered rowboats. A man with no teeth and a foul stench put his hand on Sansa's backside and hissed something unintelligible in her ear. She stiffened with fright until a bar wench smacked the man away with a broom. Sansa offered a nod of thanks before hurrying on her way. 

Oh, she felt stupid. 

She was a stupid, stupid girl for wandering unknown city streets in the dead of night. Obedient ladies belonged indoors. What would her septas think? What would Uncle think? 

Sansa scoffed to herself and shifted the weight of the backpack on her shoulders. Perhaps she should have dressed less like a student, less like a noble girl straight from the Sevenschool, now attending Oxcross College of all places. 

At the very least, she had purchased the exact same pair of boots as the girl who worked at the tea shop in Sow's End. They were constructed from one smooth length of leather, no laces, you only needed to tug them on. They had sturdy soles made of rubber from Sothoros, affixed with thick yellow stitches. They weren't so great in the rain, but they gave Sansa a certain edge.

All the girls in her classical piano class were dying to know she had gotten them. 

Sansa stood a little straighter as she turned the corner to Sallow Street, but a mere stone's throw away hung a heavy wooden sign illuminated by iron torches. 

_Deepwood Den._

In an instant, all Sansa's nerves rushed back to her. She didn't belong. A dozen or so people loitered outside the Den, smoking and chattering. They wore dark clothing and leather clothing. They wore silver mail and collars made for dogs around their necks. Chains hung from their clothes, but also their ears, eyebrows, and noses. Both the men and women had dark circles smudged beneath their eyes and dark paint on their lips. 

Sansa couldn't even begin to describe their surreal hairstyles, but they made Sansa's two milkmaid's plaits look positively trite. 

It was too late to turn back. 

The crowd at the door went silent as Sansa approached. She delivered what she hoped was a companionable smile, but received only blank stares before pushing open the door. 

She hadn't taken two steps inside the den before a muscular arm shot out to catch her. 

"Papers," a gruff voice commanded. 

Sansa balked. She craned her neck to take in the massive, chestnut-skinned man that glowered back down at her. He stuck out a hand. 

"Papers," he repeated. 

Sansa maneuvered her bag onto one shoulder and fished for her wallet. With shaky fingers, she presented her identification papers, complete with a picture of herself taken a few short moons prior, her birth date, and her current stature: noble student of the arts. 

The doorman's amber eyes narrowed.

"Are you lost?" He asked, not unkindly. 

Sansa shook her head. "I'm here to see Heartsbane." 

The guard cracked a golden-toothed smile and returned her papers. "Enjoy, young lady." 

"Thank you," Sansa beamed. 

Well, Deepwood Den was certainly no ladies' parlor. It was no bigger than a classroom, packed with bodies and the acrid stench of sourleaf. Torches lined the stone walls and cast clouds of orange light onto the low ceiling. To the left, there was a long oaken bar table with shelves crammed full of dusty bottles just behind it. The stage was at the far back, though it was more of a cave, small and deep, outfitted with instruments, amps, and black snakes of wire. 

Sansa had made it in time. Whoever Heartsbane was, they hadn't started to play. 

But then she felt it: that stickiness. Sweat seeped into her sweater and socks. This was no gala, no cocktail hour at Casterly. This was a new court, a non-court. No one recognized her. They bumped and jostled past her, unconcerned with introductions or even a simple pardon. She may as well have been a servant, or worse, a bland piece of furniture, not worth a single glance.

Sansa tried to swallow, but her tongue stuck like chalk to the roof of her mouth. 

At the very least, there was a remedy for that. 

She squeezed through the hazy crowd and claimed an open stool at the bar, taking care not to bump anyone. The barkeeper looked no different than the show goers, with a ripped t-shirt and spiked hair dyed bright red. When he looked in Sansa's direction, she smiled. He came towards her without returning the favor. 

He sucked his teeth as he pored over Sansa, though her dark turtleneck sweater revealed very little. "What'll it be?" he asked. 

"I'd like a rhodomel, please." 

The barkeeper's brows swept together. "You want a whatsit?" 

"Oh—sorry," she flustered. "Mead. Any mead will do." 

The barkeeper nodded and went away. He plucked a bottle from the shelf, dumped a measure of amber liquid into a grimy goblet, then set it in front of Sansa with a slosh. 

"That'll cost you a copper." 

Sansa put down two coppers and slid from the stool before he could protest. Drink in hand, she let the smoky dance floor swallow her up. Something else hung heavy in the air, something more floral and more fragrant than sourleaf. It stung Sansa's eyes and tickled her lungs, but she pushed forward. 

She landed at the front of the stage, shoulder to shoulder with darkly-dressed strangers. The man to her right had painted his face to resemble a wight, and the woman on Sansa's left had a shaved head and metal discs in her ears that weighed them down to her collarbones. When the woman looked in Sansa's direction, Sansa sipped nervously at her mead and feigned an interest in her boots. 

She had only just begun to feel the reassuring warmth of drunkenness creep into her veins when all the torches were simultaneously extinguished, and silence fell over the crowd. 

Sansa drained her goblet in one final swig and counted each thrum of her heart. 

At fifty, two cloaked men bearing blazing torches emerged from the blackness behind the stage. They lit a series of ornate bronze candelabras, set their torches into iron sconces, then fell in next to each other. 

They began to chant, slowly, quietly. Sansa strained to make out the words, then realized with a sick thrill that they must be speaking the Old Tongue, the obsolete language of the First Men. Though Sansa couldn't understand the meaning, from the grave tone of their voices, it sounded as though they were praying, revering someone, or something. 

When their prayer ended, the two men pushed back their hoods and cast their woolen cloaks aside. 

Sansa's jaw fell ever so slightly open. 

The first man was slender but lithe, with a half-shaved head of white hair, platform leather boots, and skin tight leather clothing adorned in countless studs and rings. 

But it was the second man who captured Sansa's full attention—he was enormous, a tower of thick, sculpted muscle who would stand almost two feet taller than Sansa even off the stage. He had dark features obscured by thick, ink black hair that fell down to his shoulders, and he was dressed like he'd come from the second century. He wore heavy iron chainmail on top of a black tunic, and black jeans cuffed over immaculately polished boots. Every seam strained from the swell of his muscles. 

He looked as though he could crush bone with his bare hands. 

Sansa gripped her empty goblet and pressed her thighs together in an attempt to stifle the sudden warmth between her legs, but it was too late. He had a brutal beauty, like a knight from ages long past, and it made her knees as solid as pudding. 

The leaner man took a seat behind the drum kit, while the other slung his guitar, a battered black Silvertongue, over his broad shoulders. He stooped to adjust the row of effects pedals at his feet, and Sansa leaned against the wooden lip of the stage, unwittingly drawn in. 

A series of runes were tattooed on each of his knuckles, but the black ink had faded and mingled with other healed-over scars that dotted his tanned skin. His marked hands moved adeptly to adjust knobs and check his wires. He had an impressive collection of pedals—loopers, distorters, delayers—so many that Sansa could only guess at the sounds he intended to make. His black hair dipped low as he worked, casting his face in shadow. 

Sansa squinted to see what lay beneath, but the man looked up suddenly and caught her stare dead-on. His grey eyes shone unblinking in the firelight, flickering with something that made her cheeks run hot. She weakly looked away, but the cold ghost of his stare lingered in her mind's eye. She found herself wishing for more mead. 

A high pitched echo rang out, then a slew of angry groans followed by a, "Get over it," from the man at the drums. He clutched a microphone in one gloved hand and his drumsticks in the other. 

"I'm Darkstar," he grumbled. "That's the Hound, and we're Heartsbane." 

With nothing but the soft flicker of flame to light the stage, the Hound began to play. His large hands wended effortlessly across his strings as he strummed a melancholy tune reminiscent of The Bloody Cup, or perhaps Steel Rain—something medieval, from a time almost forgotten. Sansa lost herself in the intricate, eerily familiar melody. She saw herself in a distant castle atop a high tower, a dashing prince serenading her from far below. 

Then, all at once, Heartsbane produced a wall of sound so forceful it nearly knocked Sansa off her feet. The melody stayed the same, but the men battered their instruments at quadruple the speed and volume, their hands pushing the limit of human dexterity. 

And the crowd went wild. The floor turned into a sea of writhing bodies, thrashing limbs, and heads pounding vigorously to the beat. Elbows met Sansa's ribs, heavy boots crushed her toes, but she stood anchored in place. 

What in all Seven Kingdoms was this...this _noise_? 

She had never heard anything like it. 

Well, that wasn't entirely true—beneath the jarring speed lurked familiar chords, but they were cloaked in anger, in volume, in ungodly chaos. Other sounds melded with the clangor of guitar and drums. There were distant screams, weeping, metal scraping against metal, and harrowing moans. It was violence set to song, the soundtrack of torture chamber. 

Sansa began to move with it. First she bobbed her head, following the wisp of medieval melody, and then she swayed, unfettered, to the ripping speed of the drums. She thrust her fists in the air and shook her plaits, unconcerned by whatever they might strike. 

She was back in that tall tower again, but there was no prince, no pretty songs. She was trapped, and she was angry. Moss-eaten stone walls closed in on her. Aspects of the Seven loomed close, unfeeling stone sockets boring holes into her feeble soul. The Gods were no comfort. Stone was nothing compared to warm flesh, but even then, the only heart beating in Sansa's cell was her own. She wore rags instead of silks. She was screaming. She was in chains. 

No one would find her here. No one would ever hear a word she had to say, none of her pleases and pardons and thank you kindlies. She had no use for them. So she screamed. She pictured Joff's pretty face with his golden curls and pouty lips, and she screamed. She pictured Uncle's stupid pointed beard and knowing green eyes, and she screamed even louder. She would rather be alone. 

A particularly sharp jab to Sansa's spine brought her gasping back into the moment. She was damp with sweat, all her stray curls slick on her temples, water trickling down her neck. The wild throb of the music had replaced her heartbeat. She brushed away some of the moisture with a billowing sleeve, and felt a sudden chill. 

The Hound's steel eyes were sharp on her, scowling as his hands flew over his Silvertongue. Sansa didn't look away this time. She steadied herself to stillness, then committed the strong arch of his brow and the steep angle of his jaw to memory. There was makeup underneath his thick hair, she decided. Something black and red like live ember.

The Hound looked away before she could tell for certain. 

So Sansa danced, and this time she thought of knights. Tall, dark knights, more shadow than man. She saw swollen muscles encased in steel plate, ruby-encrusted greatswords slung over broad shoulders, and a visored helmet that betrayed nothing of the warrior within. Her rags were useless compared to such heavy armor. Her flesh was no match for the cruelly honed edge of Valyrian steel. She surrendered herself to the strange shadow in her lonely tower, thinking all the while, _please, please be gentle. I’ve been so good_. 

All too soon, the music stopped, and all of Sansa's visions along with it. She was back in the hot, stinky den. Without a word, the men left their instruments, donned their cloaks, and extinguished every single flame. 

Only when the torches in the main room were relit did animated chatter break out amongst the crowd. Friends turned to friends, drank eagerly, and mopped the sweat from their brows. People started to trickle from the den, most likely to catch fresh air and fill it with more smoke. 

Sansa smoothed the creases in her sweater and pushed her plaits back into place—she needed a friend too. She spotted a green-haired girl reclining against the wall, cigarette in hand. When their eyes met, Sansa went over to her. 

"I've never seen anything like that before," Sansa gushed, her blood buzzing bright as a gemstone. She could scarcely believe she wasn't dreaming. 

The girl gave her once-over and cocked a pierced brow. She unleashed a burst of sourleaf smoke onto Sansa's face. "Yeah, I bet you haven't." 

"Oh, well, this is my first time here—at Deepwood. I'm Sansa." 

"Wylla." 

The girl stuck out her free hand, and Sansa shook it. 

"Well, I better get going before my girlfriend loses her shit. Later." Wylla dropped her cigarette, crushed it with a platform boot, then disappeared into the throng of people gathered at the bar. 

Darkstar had posted up there, and he received a gaggle of adoring fans. Girls offered him puffs from their cigarettes and issued loving caresses to whatever part of him they could get their hands on. Sansa didn't understand the appeal of a man who looked like he could snap in two at the slightest provocation. Joffrey was the same—taller than Sansa but somehow even slimmer. He made her feel like a giant.

She had always hated that. 

Sansa huffed, annoyed that her thoughts always led back to Joff. She decided she would have one more drink before heading home, something to soothe her nerves, but that was when she noticed him. 

_The Hound_. 

He was alone on the very far end of the bar, the left side of his face, the mysterious side, pressed close to the stone wall. He made the mistake of meeting Sansa's eye. 

She fluttered across the Den, squeezing past Darkstar's cohort until she reached the Hound's side. He was even bigger up close—the bottle of ale in his massive palm looked as though it belonged to a doll. 

All Sansa's courtesies fled her mind in an instant. She cleared her throat, and greeted him with a pitiful, "H-hi." 

_Very elegant._ The Hound didn't spare her so much as a glance. 

"May I sit here?" she tried again. 

This time, the Hound grunted. Sansa took that as a yes, so she eased up onto the stool next to him, lowering her backpack to the floor and praying it would emerge unsoiled. Then she crossed her ankles, fixed her skirt, and settled her hands in her lap. Better. 

"You played very well," Sansa primly began. 

The Hound wasn't charmed. He said nothing. He brought his bottle to his lips, drank eagerly, then slammed it back down with a clatter. _Rude._ But Sansa stayed put, because she realized—he was both bigger _and_ more handsome up close. Dark stubble lined his angular jaw, and the contour of his muscle pressed visibly through layers of linen and mail. He wore a necklace too—a heavy silver chain hung from his neck and disappeared below his tunic. He was nothing like Joffrey. He was better. 

He was a _man_. 

Sansa pulled in her lower lip. "Sorry, I don't mean to bother you. It's just that I've never seen— never _heard_ —anything like that before. I didn't even know it was possible to play guitar so fast." 

"Not surprising," the Hound grumbled.

"What's not surprising?" 

He turned toward her, his heavy brow sunk low over his piercing grey eyes. Sansa willed herself to stay upright. 

"Something tells me you're not from Sow's End, a girl so sweet, so innocent as you." 

The Hound's eyes swept over Sansa, following the line of her plaits to where her hands rested atop her skirt, a good ten inches of thigh visible. She may as well have been nude for how exposed she felt. Wickedly, she was glad the Hound could see. 

"I'm not," she returned, her chin tipped high. "I live in Oxcross, actually." 

"Oxcross, is it? And what is that you do in Oxcross?" 

"I'm a music student. Well, technically my course of study is voice. I study medieval folk music mostly, and I sing, too." 

This seemed to take the Hound off guard. Light flickered in his eyes as he searched Sansa's face. "So you're a songbird, then," he said after a minute. "Tell me, what business does a pretty little bird like you have in a neighborhood as rough as this? You ought to be in your cozy dormitory, tucked safely in bed." 

"I'm not—I came to see your show. I found this—" Sansa bent over and reached for that precious slip of paper tucked inside her bag. She pulled it out then smoothed it on the bartop. "It was the weirwood, something about it...I suppose it called to me." 

Sansa traced her finger along the tree's gnarled trunk up to its snow covered branches, then looked expectantly up to the Hound. He shook his head and laughed, baring a row of strong, straight teeth. 

"Seven hells, girl. I'll need more ale for this." 

The Hound flagged down the barkeeper, who took notice and swaggered towards them. 

"What'll it be?" 

"I'll take another stout, and she'll have—" he stopped and turned to Sansa. "What does the little bird want to drink?" 

"Mead," she answered. 

"She'll have _the mead_ ," he repeated in a slightly mocking lilt. 

In no time, they had a fresh round of drinks in hand. Sansa drank much too quickly, hoping the alcohol would dull the lightning that crackled beneath her skin. She was being positively reckless. She was in an unfamiliar club, in an unfamiliar part of an unfamiliar city, next to a callous stranger. A stranger who could snap her neck in one swift squeeze. 

She shuddered in her seat. 

Was the Hound as dangerous as he looked? And worse, why did the thought of his brute strength put to use on her body excite her so? 

_It's the weirwood_ , Sansa thought, tracing the tree's parchment branches. _He understands_. 

"Who drew the picture?" she asked. 

"I did," the Hound answered. 

Sansa smiled—she was right. "I hadn't seen a weirwood in so long," she told him. "Since it's image is banned in books and all, and it's not like I own any ancient manuscripts. Still—" She paused to sip her flowery mead, a little courage. "I know I'm not supposed to, but I find the Old Gods fascinating. My father kept them. He said there used to be magic in Westeros, even after the First Men came. But it was the Andals—" 

"I know," the Hound interrupted. 

"Oh." Sansa felt herself flush. "Sorry, it's just that I've never talked about this with anyone. I'd never even heard the Old Tongue spoken until tonight, and it's—it's beautiful. Your songs are beautiful." 

This made him scowl a bit, much to Sansa's dismay. 

"What were you singing about?" 

"They're prayers," was his gruff reply. 

"Prayers?" She echoed, incredulous. 

"To the Old Gods." The Hound dipped his head a good few inches closer to hers. "This isn't Oxcross, girl. There are no septs in Sow's End. Sure, some folk prefer the red god, but this lot—" He swept a brawny arm across the room. "This lot belongs to the nameless gods, to the dirt and the stars, to piss, blood, and shit alike." 

Sansa wasn't sure how to respond. The Hound had come close enough that she could take in his earthy scent and capture glimpses of the dark skin beneath his hair. 

"Is it makeup?" was all she could manage to get out. 

"What?" 

"Here." Sansa set her fingertips to her left cheek. 

The Hound quickly recoiled and shielded that half of his face from sight. "No," he answered, curt. "It's none of your concern." 

Embarrassed, Sansa took up her goblet and drank the rest, cursing her crude manners. If it wasn't makeup that darkened his face so, then it must be a scar. A huge and horrible scar, more monster than man. Sansa didn't know if she wanted to look upon it again. 

"Who are you?" The Hound rasped. He hadn't taken his eyes from her. 

"I'm Sansa," she replied meekly. "Sansa Stark." 

The Hound broke into cruel, open-mouthed laughter, so loud that Sansa had to force herself not to flinch. "Oh, that's rich, isn't it. Stark? You're a northern girl, then? Got a cousin who's the Warden? Spend the holy days in Winterfell? The wildlings really did a number up there during the war, it's a miracle your bloodline survived."

Hot tears rushed to Sansa's eyes. _He's awful._

"Oh, don't get all weepy." The Hound waved his bottle in her face. "I could tell you were a spoiled little girl, but a Stark? In Sow's End? Fuck's sake. That's got to be a first." He sucked down the rest of his ale, still laughing to himself, while Sansa covertly wiped away a fallen tear. 

Her bloodline had scarcely survived. 

Of course, she had, away at school in the South, by the grace of the Seven. But her family—Father, Mother, Jon, Bran, and Rickon—weren't so lucky. It was Joff's mother, Lady Cersei, who passed the news to her on that horrible day, the worst of Sansa's life. _Dead_ , Cersei had told her. _A slaughter, sadly_. _The wildlings lined them up like trees in the Godswood and fell them all. Waters run red at Winterfell this day._

Sansa didn't care to relive it. She slid the poster back into her bag, ready to grab it and flee, but the Hound caught her wrist. Just as she suspected, his grip was as unforgiving as steel. She whimpered at the wave of unbidden excitement that rippled across her skin. 

"Don't go," he growled. "I'll play nice." 

When Sansa nodded, the Hound released her, and she set her bag back to the ground. 

He ordered more drinks for them, and Sansa started in on her third serving of mead. She drank instead of talking—she was still rather cross—but her blush lingered warm on her cheeks, so heavy it kept her in her seat. The entire den was a warm and hazy blur, every darkly-dressed patron blending seamlessly into the next. Except the Hound. His heat was distinct at Sansa's side. It radiated from his skin so strongly that Sansa could feel it on her own. 

He must run very, very hot. 

The thought made Sansa's hair stand on end. 

"Why are you here?" he asked after a while, the edge of his voice dulled to a soft rumble. 

Sansa looked up from her near empty cup. "I don't know," she answered. "I—I don't know much at all, really. I'm trying to learn." 

"Mm. Can't fault that, I suppose." 

"This is the first time in my life I've been on my own. There's a lot more out there than I thought—and I want—I want to try everything. Everything that I couldn't do before." 

"Like going to folk metal shows in Sow's End?" 

"Yes, like that." Sansa smiled. "Is that what you call it? Metal?" 

"Aye." 

"Metal," Sansa repeated. "I can't believe I've never heard it before—well, I know the folk part—I love old folk songs. But with the guitar and drums, you nearly knocked me to the ground." 

The Hound smiled back. "You have to be careful, little bird. Make use of your elbows. I thought you might get crushed out there in the center of the floor." 

"So you did notice me…" Sansa thought back to the first time their eyes met, and that same warm ache blossomed between her legs. 

"Hard not to notice such bright hair and blue eyes. Besides, you were staring the taste out of me." 

"I was?" If Sansa was red before, she would be a cherry now. But she conceded, "I was. I was looking at your hands." 

Sansa brushed her fingertips over the runes on the Hound's broad knuckles. A long white scar, almost a quarter inch wide, spanned across them. It would have been a nasty cut, something that required a lot of stitches and months of healing.He wore three thick silver rings, too—one dragon glass, one black opal, and one deep blue sapphire. Sansa worked her fingers along the intricate metalwork, swirls of thorny vines on two of the rings, and a mighty talon gripping the stone on the third.

Everything about that hand exuded latent power. It had done well on the guitar, but Sansa knew it could do much, much more. 

"How are you getting home, little bird?" 

Sansa pulled away and peered up to meet his eye. "I take the train into town—I don't know how to drive yet." 

"The trains stop running past eleven." 

"Past eleven?" Sansa glanced down at her golden wristwatch, which clearly read midnight, and her heart sunk in her chest. All those hours spent studying the schedule, and somehow she had forgotten to keep track of time. If she hadn't loitered at the bar, she could have made the train, but now she had no choice but to call a cab and empty her entire purse in the process. 

"Come back to my place," the Hound offered. "We'll have a drink, I'll show you more of my drawings, and I'll get you home." 

"More drawings?" Sansa thought about it for a moment. "But I have class tomorrow, I really shouldn't—" 

She cut herself short. What choice did she have? She didn't want the hassle of calling a cab, and she certainly wouldn't be spending the night at Butcher's Station. But following a stranger home—a stranger with a devastatingly dark allure in place of any real manners—that would be utter lunacy. 

"I'll go," Sansa relented. "But I can't stay for long." 

"Come on then, let's get out of here. It's too damn hot." 

The Hound slammed a handful of coppers on the bartop and shot up from his seat, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. He was halfway across the den when Sansa caught up to him, but he noticed her lagging, and pushed her forward with a wide palm set on the small of her back. The warmth of his touch spread like wildfire across her skin, and she barely made it outside without turning to a pile of ash. 

Thankfully, the night air was cool on her flushed cheeks. The crowd of smokers parted to let them pass, not daring to idle in the Hound's path. Some people gave him swift nods in greeting, but others offered only leery stares. Sansa gave up watching their faces, instead choosing to watch the Hound's mighty black boots pounding over the cobbled walkway. 

She tried not to think of his reputation. 

"Do you live closeby?" Sansa asked, when the din of Deepwood had faded into the distance. He had gotten ahead of her again, and she was breathless at his heels. 

"Aye, a couple blocks south." He looked over his shoulder and noticed her struggle. 

"Come," he bade, offering his arm. 

Sansa hurried to his side and laced her arm in his. It was a real treat, being close to a man as big as the Hound. She couldn't help but to let her hand explore the hard lines of his muscles. His bicep had to be at least five times the width of her own and hundreds of times stronger. 

And he was tall, taller than any man Sansa had ever known. He loomed over her, like a warrior statue in a sept, tall, dark, proud, but even bigger. Sansa wondered how he had gotten his strength. She had met plenty of men from the military, supposedly the most worthy warriors in all of Westeros, but not even the highest ranking officers were as big as the Hound. He was extraordinary. 

Best of all was his scent. He didn't smell like Joff, like strawberries and sterile soap, without a hint of man beneath. Sandor very nearly stank. His body odor came down like a tide from his armpits, sour, and worse, _delightful_. Warm, in a way. He smelled of earth and spice too—notes of cinnamon and cedar clung to his tunic alongside that intoxicating floral scent from the den. Sansa could swim in it all day and not tire. 

The streets of Sow's End were much less intimidating under the Hound's protection. They passed drunkards swaying on their feet and people stretched out on ratty blankets, cups of poppymilk clutched in their unwashed hands. If anyone came close, he would tense up, bringing Sansa every so slightly closer to him. 

She didn't mind. 

Because she was mad. She was going home with a stranger. To think, a mere three months ago she was on her knees, begging Joff to stay with her, to forget Margaery, promising she would surrender her maidenhead if only he would just propose. 

But he didn't propose. He didn't stay, either. 

And now Sansa, a girl who had only ever dated one boy, was going home with a stranger. 

They stopped at a squat stone building with a thick wooden door, detailed with swirls of iron cladding. 

"This is it," said the Hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for part 2! Already written, will be posted soon 😊 If you want to follow updates (I'm working on a few shorter projects instead of my long one) I'm on twitter @_prettybadmagic.


	2. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Round two! A deeper dive into the world, with some added spice. Hope y'all enjoy 💖

The Hound stepped inside first, and Sansa followed behind as they went down a narrow corridor, finally stopping in front of a heavy door marked with the letter C. A savage bark rang out from behind it, causing Sansa to nearly jump out of her boots. 

"Gods damn it, Stranger, quiet down." The Hound slammed a fist on the door and fumbled with the lock with his other hand. After a slight struggle it clicked into place. 

"He's not aggressive," the Hound told her. "But move slowly." 

Stranger was a massive black bloodhound who stood as tall as Sansa's waist, with a short, glossy coat and alarmingly white teeth, all of them bared. The Hound wrested him by his collar and pulled him aside so Sansa could pass, but that didn't stop the poor creature's howling. He clawed at the floorboards, doing all he could to get closer to her. 

"Stranger," the Hound warned, in a tone so stern that it sent a chill down Sansa's spine. "Settle down." 

But Sansa wasn't afraid. She did what her father had taught her as a girl when it came to greeting wolves in the Wolfswood. She lowered herself onto her knees before the eager creature and set out two upward facing palms, taking care to keep her head down. Sansa waited with bated breath until she felt the warm, wet sensation of a slobbery tongue across her skin. She giggled, and the Hound released Stranger, who promptly delivered a series of even wetter laps all over her face. 

"That'll do, boy. Go on now." The Hound shooed his pet away and offered Sansa a hand up, which she happily accepted. 

"I think he likes me," she said, dusting her skirt. 

The Hound clearly hadn't expected company. Two dim floor lamps illuminated a mess of a room, its flagstone walls lined with erratically stuffed shelves and band posters that curled at the corners. All of his belongings were scattered about—dirtied dishes, books, weights, tape decks, even an amp and a silver bass. The only respectable pieces of furniture were a green velvet sofa and a dark walnut low table, but even those were buried beneath notebooks and pencils and magazines. 

Still, Sansa found herself charmed by the honest chaos of it all, and that smell, his smell, permeated the air. But one thing stood out amongst the rest—a huge golden greatsword hung above the mantle, caged safely in a dusty walnut shadowbox. 

"You didn't tell me—" Sansa began, dropping her bag and crossing over to the fireplace. She would recognize that sword anywhere, and sure enough, the gold-plated inscription below the sword read:

_Ser Sandor Clegane_

_Fifteen Thousand, Two Hundred and Ninety Second Knight of the Kingsforce_

_Year Eight Hundred and Twenty After Conquest_

So his name was Sandor—another piece of information he had kept to himself—and he had served in the most elite faction of the King's Army during the Seven Years War. Perhaps that was how he earned all his scars. 

"You didn't mention anything about the Kingsforce."

"You didn't ask." 

Sansa whirled around to face Sandor, who hovered like a shadow just behind her. "We could have met before—at a ball or a gala. There are always white cloaks around, though I suppose they keep their helmets on." 

"I would have remembered you." 

Sansa chewed on her lip and studied Sandor's face, but there wasn't enough light to make her memory clearer. "Something about your name is familiar...I swear I've heard it before." 

Then it came to her. 

"The Mountain—is he—" 

"My brother," Sandor finished, with venom in his voice. 

Sansa's mouth formed a silent oh. Gregor Clegane was an infamous knight of the Kingsforce who had gone mad after the war and massacred the entirety of Wendish Town. Five hundred people burned and bled in the span of a few hours. He lit every building on fire and sprayed every beating heart with bullets until only charred corpses remained. 

It took fifty grown men to bring him down. His size and strength were legendary—he had earned the medal of honor for his service not even a year before his death. 

He was Sandor's brother. 

"I'm sorry," was all Sansa could think to say. 

"Me too," Sandor returned. 

"What made you leave the Kingsforce? Aren't you supposed to stay until—" 

"I was done being a dog," he said in a loud rasp that left no room for questions. Sansa didn't even have any. There was a time when she idolized knights, but watching the carnage that befell the North made her realize what little honor there was in warfare. The free folk weren't to blame—it was Westerosi greed, plain and simple. 

Sandor probably knew that, too. 

"I need a drink," he grumbled, scratching his stubbled jawline. "I don't have any pretty meads but I've got liquor and ale, if you want it." 

Sansa briskly nodded. "I'll take whatever you're having, thank you." 

He left Sansa on her own. Her palms were still sticky, and she smoothed them over her skirt as she circled Sandor's living room. It was cozy, she decided, a poorly organized library of sorts. His books were stuffed onto sturdy oak shelves any which way. He had classic titles that Sansa recognized and other titles that made her blush to even read in her head— _Sexual Rites of the First Men, Undressing the Maiden: Sexism of the Seven, Modern Orgiastic Practice_. The last one had a fresh set of fingerprints on it. 

A small part of her wanted to pry open those pages and glean the forbidden knowledge within, but she forced herself forward to a shelf stocked with row upon row of records. Sansa thumbed through them, and just like the books, Sandor's breadth of taste surprised her. She had just pulled out a copy of Melisandre's _Violent Delight_ when Sandor reentered, a full glass in each hand. 

"I love Melisandre," she hummed. "I used to listen to this album in record shops, but I could never play it at the Sevenschool, of course. I had to wait until I got to college to buy my own record player, and I got this one straight away. I wouldn't think you'd listen to—" 

"To an artist for who makes music for sad maidens?" 

Sansa blushed. "Well, yes." 

Sandor shrugged and passed her one of the glasses. "It's a rye sour, a triple." 

"Oh, thank you." Sansa had never had much rye, only a taste or two when her father was feeling particularly generous, and it had always been too bitter. She took a cautious first sip. A symphony of woodsy, sweet, sour, and savory flavors washed over her tongue all at once, and she grinned. "It's wonderful." 

Sandor grinned back. "Probably because I put a shit load of sugar in it."

"Well I like it," Sansa said, taking a defiant swallow, then looking back down at the cover of _Violent Delight_ , which depicted Melisandre afloat in a sea of flaming flowers. "You know, she's signed to Red Comet, but she actually does the production herself. She has her own studio in Dragonstone, and she uses a Collio 8000. You know how many other women artists have a Collio 8000?" 

"Not many." 

"None. It's depressing. I mean—it's a complicated synthesizer, what with it being the size of a dinner table and having enough modules to make your head spin. But oh, I would love to get my hands on one someday, if only for a few hours." 

"Do you make music, little bird?" 

Sandor had come closer, putting Sansa's head only a few inches from the dark silver chainmail that spanned his broad chest. She had to lift her chin to find his eye. 

"I try. My uncle only wants me to play classical music, so that leaves lute, harp, and piano. Nothing electronic, that's for sure. I bought a Minimarq from the same place I got my record player, but I haven't had much time to practice making anything of my own quite yet." 

"A Minimarq, eh? That'll cost more than a few coppers. You ought to show me what you make with it." 

"I will, but only if you promise not to laugh at me." 

"I wouldn't dare," Sandor returned. "Let's put this one on." 

He took the album, slid it from its jacket, and set it inside his record player, fixing the needle with a slight crackle of static. Melisandre's smoky voice flowed from the speakers to the tune of _Sorrow in Summertime_ , and Sansa couldn't help but to sing along. She knew all the words by heart, and they spilled from her lips, sweet and warm like the glass of rye poised in her hand. 

"You sing beautifully, little bird." 

Sansa felt her cheeks go hot. She gave Sandor a wide-eyed stare. 

"Don't act like you don't know." 

He picked up one of her plaits, and smoothed his thumb down to the black silk ribbon at its end. 

Heat pooled in Sansa's belly, too. 

"You're a beautiful girl, Sansa. Your hair, your skin," his hand slid from her braid to her cheek, which he cupped in his broad palm as tenderly as a fallen flower. He exhaled, and his liquor-tinged breath washed over her face. She forced down her nerves in one stiff swallow. 

"I've never known a girl so pretty." 

Sandor's breath came closer, and Sansa leaned in, let her eyes drop shut. His lips found hers, and at first they shared a gentle kiss, but Sandor's grip on her cheek hardened. He pressed his mouth greedily onto hers. Half of it was rough, the texture of cracked earth. Sansa wanted to know more—she wanted to feel the darkness on his skin.

She had only just grazed the left edge of Sandor's jaw, sweeping beneath his long hair, when he abruptly withdrew and trapped her wrist. Sansa gasped. 

"Don't," he reproached. 

The warmth in Sansa's belly turned to cold stone. "S-sorry," she stuttered, but she couldn't find any other words. Dark crimson shone on the fingertips of her offending hand, still caught in Sandor's hold. She looked from her fingers back to his face. 

"You're bleeding," she whispered. 

The left half of his face was an utter ruin, Sansa realized. They weren't just any scars. Something had lay waste to skin, something horrible, and left behind a living wound. There wasn't enough light to see the extent of the damage, but Sansa needed only to look at the anguish in Sandor's eyes to know how much he hurt. 

Mercifully, he dropped her hand, then backed against the wall. 

"What happened, Sandor?" 

"Fire." 

"The war?" 

"No." 

Sandor downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, and Sansa wrapped her arms around herself to still a sudden shiver. She glanced to the door and imagined herself leaving, taking to the streets of Sow's End alone. 

She frowned. 

There was nowhere to go, and she had done this to herself. She just wanted the warmth back. 

"Can you show me more of your drawings?" 

Sandor hesitated, and for a moment Sansa thought he may be through with her, but he answered, "Aye, I can do that." 

Sansa let out a sigh of relief. 

"Here." Sandor went to the sofa and cleared a pile of rolled up papers, pens, and books by knocking them unceremoniously onto the ground. "You sit. I'll go get my sketchbook." 

Stranger watched from his bed in the corner of the room as Sansa dropped gingerly onto the sofa. She adjusted her skirt to show a little more skin, then tucked in her sweater to slim her waist. Melisandre's melancholy _Living Death_ played on in the background. 

" _Life is sweet_ ," the songstress crooned. " _But death is sweeter; I take my nightshade with two spoons of sugar._ " 

Sansa sunk into the cushions and let her eyelids drop. This album was the soundtrack of her breakup with Joffrey, and she could see it all in the colors that danced behind her eyes. She could hear the bitter poison in his voice when he said he'd never loved her, that she was too pale and too freckly, and worst of all, a nobody. A hapless Stark. A northern cast-off. 

Sansa said she would prove herself. Joffrey said, "Then strip." 

Naked, on hands and knees, Joffrey claimed her maidenhead from behind. Sansa wept. 

"Like a wolf bitch," he had laughed, and he smiled his horribly pretty smile, and stole the only worthwhile thing Sansa had left. She was a stupid girl, giving herself up. Uncle knew immediately, said he smelled it on her. He was furious. "You're nothing," he told her. "You disgust me. No one will ever want you." 

Those words crawled beneath her skin like maggots on black meat. Sansa wanted her nightshade and two spoons of sugar most days, but she didn't have the courage. 

She set a hand on her trembling lower lip to still it. Now wasn't the time to dredge up such cruelty, but in truth it floated on the surface of her mind, ready to be skimmed at a moment's notice. Sansa was terrified that Uncle was right. _No one will ever want you._

She pulled her hand from her mouth only to see the brown remnants of Sandor's blood flaking on the ridges of her fingertips. Did Sandor want her? Or did she succeed in offending him, too? She had ruined their first kiss, after he had spoken so sweetly to her. 

She would have to try harder. She had nothing to lose. 

A rustling in the next room over caused Sansa to straighten in her seat. She cleared a spot for her drink on the low table, which was covered in an odd assortment of glassware. There were several pieces of varying sizes and shapes, all coated in black residue and reeking of char. A full jar of purple-green leaves sat behind the glass. Sansa picked it up to inspect it. It wasn't sourleaf; it emitted that other smell from the den, like a stinky, verdant flower. 

"Do you smoke?" 

Sandor had come back. He had removed his mail, combed his hair back into place, and now carried a large pad of paper beneath his arm. Sansa hastily dropped the jar of leaves and shook her head. 

"No, I—it's not sourleaf, is it?" 

"Oh, little bird," Sandor chuckled. He fell heavily onto the sofa beside her, his brawny legs splayed so that his knee pressed firmly against Sansa's thigh. "It's hempweed."

"Hempweed," Sansa echoed. She knew of hempweed. It was a plant from Sothoros for deadbeats and sluggards, nothing she had ever had occasion to sample. 

"I'll roll us a joint, and we'll see if you like it." 

Sandor went to work picking apart a chunk of hempweed over a small brown square of rolling paper. Sansa watched, morbidly curious. A sheen of sweet coated her palms, as it always did when she toed the line of propriety. 

"What does it do?" 

"What does it do?" Sandor thought on that. "It does a lot of things. Makes the world a little slower and a little more complex. It gives answers. Raises questions. It relaxes things too, takes the tension right out of you. It's a nice little plant." 

"I want to relax." 

That made Sandor smile a bit. "Most people do." 

He picked up what looked no different than a cigarette, put the end in his mouth, and lit it with a silver encased lighter. After taking a lengthy drag, he released a billowing cloud of smoke and a few deep coughs. "Gods, that's good." 

He waved away the smoke and passed the joint to Sansa. She pinched it cautiously between two fingers and gave Sandor an apprehensive look. 

"Go on. There's nothing to it. Just pull it all the way down into your lungs and hold it." 

Sansa put the paper tip to her lips and inhaled. Searing hot smoke rushed into her mouth and scalded her windpipe, sending her into a wild coughing fit. Sandor caught the joint before it flew from her grasp, then smoothed his hand over her back. "That was good," he assured, though Sansa couldn't tell if he intended to mock her. "It takes practice." 

"That felt awful," she whined. 

Sandor went on smoking with a broad hand firmly situated on Sansa's back. Her coughing spell made her head feel as though it were stuffed full of cotton. She wiped the tears from her eyes, but couldn't rid the black dots that danced behind them. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light. Muted rays streamed across the table and through the glassware, scattering patches of rainbow and shadow every which way. 

Sansa's hands didn't feel right. They were curled into fists on her lap, but that made her seem angry. She folded them on top of one another, fingers over fingers, but that was much too formal. So she set her hands on her knees, and realized she was trembling. A small fractured rainbow shimmied over her unsteady knuckles. 

And her knuckles—had they always been so swollen? They bulged from her fingers like bulbs on sea kelp, malformed from all her years of piano practice. She wished her hands could be dainty and untried like Margaery's. Instead they were lumpy, pale, and never in the right position. 

"You alright, little bird?" 

Sansa's head whipped to the left. "My hands are all wrong," she pouted. 

Sandor forced down a smile, which made Sansa pout even more. "They're just fine," he told her. "Don't think about what they ought to be. Think of all the things they're capable of. Hands are a blessing. I wouldn't take them for granted." 

Sansa flexed her fingers. "I can play piano—I'm actually quite good at it." 

"I believe that. You'll have to play for me sometime." 

"I would, but I don't have a piano of my own at school. Mine is—" Sansa let out a sigh. "It's at my uncle's house, in the Vale." 

"That's a ways away," Sandor said. He expelled another plume of smoke, then stuck the joint in a pewter ashtray. "Who's your uncle?" 

"Um…" _My dearest companion_ , she could have said, because that's what Uncle would have liked to hear. He was better than Joff, of course, despite his harsh words. His kisses were softer, and he never touched. Not like that. He loved Sansa. He just wanted her to be pretty, desirable. A true Tully lady, like her mother before her. 

And Sansa loved him back, a dutiful niece. So she answered, "It's Petyr. Petyr Baelish." But when she looked up to Sandor, water swam in her eyes. "I don't want to talk about him." 

"We don't have to." 

"Can we look at your drawings now?" 

"Sure,” Sandor said. He reached for the sketchbook at his feet, then placed it over both of their laps. "Some of it is a bit... _graphic_ , so be prepared." 

When Sandor peeled back the cover, Sansa immediately clasped a hand over her mouth. 

Graphic was an understatement. 

A harrowing sea of faces glared back at her, penned in brutally realistic black ink. There were wights, dragons, giants, kings, and men, their features twisted into expressions of utter terror, detailed down to the reflections of light in their sweat and blackened pores on their broken noses. Sandor had invented his own creatures too—beings with long beaks and bloodied eyes, others with pig snouts and no eyes at all. They were conjurings from a nightmare, and every single being on the page was in pain. Sansa's stomach wound in knots trying to read each individual's suffering. 

It was a picture of war. 

"It's incredible," she whispered. "But terrifying. Is war really like that?" 

"More or less." 

Sandor flipped to the next page. This drawing was relatively tame by comparison, depicting a man slouched onto a sword, with vines and flowers spilling from the wound and seeping into the dirt beneath him. Sansa liked this corpse better. The greenery made death look less grisly and much more noble. 

Sandor turned another page, but Sansa only caught a flash of orange and yellow before he quickly thumbed past to the next drawing. 

"What was that?"

"Don't—" Sandor began, but Sansa was already reaching across to go back to the drawing he had skipped. He took hold of her before she could turn the page. "Don't ask any questions." 

He let Sansa go, and she opened the most evocative drawing yet. 

It was a self portrait. Bright flame on one side of Sandor's face, a ghastly scream on the right. His eyes were full black, his brow thrust together in abject terror. Blood, or sweat, or tears poured from his eyes and mouth and down to the bottom of the page.

The paper quivered and clung to Sansa's damp fingers. 

"Sandor—" 

She looked up at him, but he was focused intently on the far corner of the room, offering her only the undamaged side of his face. He had tan, weathered skin and creases at the corner of his eye, but a perfect brow, stunning eyes, a strong jaw. Sansa wanted more than anything to trace that line, to cut herself on its sharpness. 

"I think—I think you're very handsome." 

Sandor scoffed, packing untold bitterness into one gruff exhale. Without a word, he snapped the sketchbook shut and cast it onto the floor. Sansa had done something wrong, again. 

She set a timid hand on his upper arm. "Sandor…" 

He glanced to the hand on his bicep, then met her eye. "My brother did it," he said, with that same sickly poison in his voice. 

"The fire?" 

"The fire." 

Sansa's pulse roared in her ears. Each second passed like a century. She couldn't help but feel like she shouldn't know this, that the portrait and the story that went along with it should be bound and sealed, set on the highest shelf and left to collect dust. 

She shouldn't know this. 

But just as with the other risque texts in his possession, Sansa wanted to unleash its secrets and devour them, one by one. She tugged off her boots and folded carefully onto her knees, settling them gently against Sandor's leg. She put a hand on his knee. 

"You can tell me, if you like." 

He unfurled at her words, stretching his arm along the wooden rim of the sofa. His warmth enveloped her like a woolen cloak and brought his deep, earthy scent along with it. Sansa dropped into him. 

"It happened when I was seven," he said, tracing his fingertips lightly across her arm. "It's a stupid story, and that's the probably the shittiest thing about it. I wanted one of Gregor's toy soldiers, I stole it, and he punished me. He held my head in the hearth until my father discovered us." 

"That's horrible," Sansa breathed. 

"I lied," he added with a sigh. "The shittiest part about it is that after my father pulled me from the fire, he spanked me until I bled. He kept screaming 'Why would you take Gregor's things?' over and over again. I think what he meant was that I should have known what was coming to me. That I could steal, but I had to pick my victims wisely. I learned my lesson." 

"Oh Sandor, I'm so sorry." Sansa moved her hand from his knee to his chest, where she spread her fingers and tenderly clasped his tunic. "I'm so sorry that happened to you." 

He found Sansa's eye. "It's not your fault, little bird. It was mine." 

For the first time, Sansa allowed herself to truly study Sandor's scars. His hair fell across the left side of his face like a dark curtain, but between the glossy strands lay an expanse of shattered black skin, crimson ire filling the cracks. It looked like molten coals at the bottom of a hearth. 

Sansa's stomach was still in knots, but not from the gore. She felt the grief of a child who made one simple choice and paid a cruel price, a child whose life would never be the same, and Sansa was powerless to ease his suffering. That hurt the worst of all. 

"May I see them?" 

Sandor said nothing, but he didn't didn't recoil when Sansa swept the hair from the left side of his face and set it behind his shoulder. She followed the scorched line of his jaw with her finger, from his chin to a spot of exposed white bone, then cradled his cheek. His skin flared as though flame still claimed it, but Sansa left her hand there to burn.

"You're not afraid," said Sandor, falling closer. 

"I think you're very, very handsome," Sansa replied, her eyes trained on his mouth. 

Sandor's lips descended on hers, and all at once she felt his hunger. His kiss was insatiable. He bit down on her lower lip, and when she gasped from the punishing pleasure of it, he thrust his tongue greedily inside her. As their tongues intertwined, Sansa realized her own appetite. He tasted of dark ale, sharp rye, and sultry hemp smoke, and he smelled of it too—with every quavering breath Sansa took in more of him. 

He was all over her. He was all she knew. 

His strong hands moved expertly on her body. One clamped down on the back of her neck, while the other slid up her too-short skirt and sunk into the pliant flesh of her thigh. It was bad, Sansa knew. She shouldn't have a stranger's ravenous mouth on hers, or bold fingers venturing north, claiming her buttocks. But he was claiming all of her, pulling her onto his lap, commanding her weight as though she was no more than a doll stuffed with cotton. And Sansa wanted to be a doll, to have Sandor play with her as he saw fit. No boy had ever kissed her so intensely, but every swirl of his tongue and press of his lips told her—he was no boy.

He was a full grown man, near thrice her size, and Sansa could feel his size. His manhood swelled in his jeans and pressed insistently against the thin cotton of her underwear. An ache bloomed inside Sansa, one she knew from her sweetest dreams, so she chased it, moving against Sandor's hardness. Just like in her dreams, she became wet, warmth slipping eagerly from inside her. She should be embarrassed, but she couldn't still the rhythmic grind of her hips. She could only pray that she wouldn't make a mess. 

Sandor was too preoccupied to notice. He had trapped Sansa at the waist and buried his face in the crook her neck. His mouth dug into a tender spot of skin, and he sucked on it, pulling it into his teeth and letting his tongue roam wild. It almost seemed as though he intended to devour her, one excruciating bite at a time. Sansa mewled. She sunk her nails into Sandor's rock-hard shoulders, doing all she could to not melt.

She was nothing in his arms. She was a snowflake in a blazing hearth, and if she wasn't careful, she'd soon be vapor. 

But Sansa was through being careful. When Sandor let up from her neck, she took his face in her palms and sent her mouth across his skin. She kissed the rigid jawline that had tormented her all night; she kissed the proud crest of his cheek and the steep arch of his nose. Then her lips met his darker skin. It was rough and warm, but no less satisfying. The unblemished half of his face had tasted of salt and spice, but the side touched by fire was all smoky cedar. Sansa liked the taste of flame. 

When she had her fill, she pulled away and rested her forehead on his. They drank in each other's breath, and their pulses throbbed together. Her underwear clung to her, soaked through from her own unspooled lust, but she didn't care. She was ready to surrender herself to him, to be his doll, nothing more than a plaything. 

He certainly had enough strength to make her wish come true. Sansa's hands found his chest and smoothed over the pronounced swell of muscle beneath his dark cotton tunic. _How is it possible for a man to be so large?_ she mused, running a finger over the ridge of his collar bone to the chain at his neck. She pulled it to reveal a heavy pendant, the size of a silver piece. A weirwood was etched in the metal, with a sparkling ruby tear set below its all-knowing eye. She clutched in her fist and looked up at Sandor. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"It's beautiful," Sansa replied, and she thought, _I belong here_. 

Sandor merely grunted. His large, warm hands were up her skirt, his thumbs toying with the flimsy lace band of her underwear. A certain brightness burned in his eyes, a look Sansa had never seen. 

"I want you to do something for me, little bird," he said softly. Sansa nodded—she knew suddenly she would do anything for him—so he went on, "I want you to take off my boots." 

A surge of blood rushed to Sansa's aching center—he wanted _what_? 

But not a second later, a fierce hand clasped her chin. This time his tone was firm, as firm as it had been with Stranger. Each word dropped from his lips like stone. 

"Get on the floor, and take off my boots." 

Without protest, Sansa slid from his lap down between his legs. Her heart fluttered wildly as she untied his yellow laces, but she willed her fingers to steadiness. They were only boots, after all—massive, black, and heavy enough to make her temples sweat as she wrestled them off. She had only ever done this for Father. But it was different with Sandor, because her heart beat in two places at once. And when she looked up, she knew he felt the same. He smirked down on her, his jeans tented with his own arousal. He smoothed a strong hand over her head, and said, "Good girl." 

Sansa swallowed, hard. Her insides glowed. Those two words made the work worthwhile. 

"Now take down your plaits." 

Again, Sansa complied. She got rid of her silk ribbons first, then unwove each braid. Her eyes didn't stray from Sandor's as her fingers danced quickly through her thick lengths of auburn hair. She had a feeling he wanted this—her unwavering attention, her obedience—and she had always been so good at following rules. 

When she was done, her hair tumbled to her hips in messy waves. There was so much of it that she scarcely ever let it down, and Sandor seemed to know. He let out a low, visceral growl. One hand rested on his bulge, the denim darkened from where Sansa had ridden him not minutes before. He buried the other hand in her hair and let the long strands trickle through his fingers. 

"You have such pretty hair, little bird, like silken flame. And your skin…" Sandor grazed his ink-stained knuckles across Sansa's cheek. "You're so young." 

He took her entire cheek in his palm, then thrust his thumb into her mouth. He opened her up, roughly pushing her tongue and tracing her teeth. Sansa moved with him. She lapped and sucked on him as he pressed deeper. She took in the taste of salt and the tang of metal from his guitar strings. 

"Good girl," he soothed, pulling down her lower lip with his spit-soaked thumb. 

Sansa quivered from her place at his feet, squishing her thighs together to prevent her own water from dripping down to the floor. Those words again. She would do anything to hear Sandor repeat them and look down on her as he did now, like he was starving and she was the only meal for miles. 

Sansa shuddered. He was hungry—for _her_. 

"Are you nervous?"

A weak noise caught Sansa's throat. She shook her head. 

"Good." Sandor stroked along the bridge of her nose. "I'll be gentle." He didn't smile, but alongside the desire in his eyes, Sansa saw a flicker of softness. She felt safe in his strong, capable hands. If he intended to ravage her, he would have already done so.

He was going to be gentle. 

"Come then," he said. He swallowed her hands in his and brought them both to standing. "Follow me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, it's going down. See y'all soon 😘


	3. The Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it rough or is it tender? Is it consent or is it dirty talk? 
> 
> Yes, yes, yes, and yes. 
> 
> Sandor and Sansa both get what they've wanted all night long. 
> 
> 🔥🔥🔥 enjoy 🔥🔥🔥

Sandor led them to a room at the end of a short corridor. The only light came from muted starlight pushing through a set of thick curtains, but he maneuvered easily in the darkness to light a series of brass-bottomed kerosene lamps. 

It was his bedroom, though Sansa might have thought she was in a chamber in Casterly Rock. He had a set of black walnut furniture, well-worn and heavy. There was a wardrobe, a writing desk, and a massive bed with ornate carvings of goldencup and moonbloom atop each of its four towering posts. A huge wooden crossbow hung next to the bed, with an iron safe as tall as Sansa just beside it. 

It would have intimidated her more if the whole room wasn’t as dusty and cluttered as the living room. There were books, rumpled clothes, and enough scattered paper to make Sansa question whether or not he had a waste basket. Her favorite part of all was the art—a collection of frayed tapestries lined the wall. They were ethereal, depicting scenes of fair-haired maidens and their dashing knights. 

Sansa's heart thundered against her ribs. _I shouldn't know this_ , she reminded herself. She shouldn't be in a stranger's bedroom well past midnight, with an insistent wetness between her legs, and only the wickedest thoughts on her mind. She ran her fingers along the crossweave of a maiden's golden locks, wondering how many other pretty girls had been taken in by Sandor's dark charm. 

"Do you like it?" 

He was across the room, poised on the edge of his bed. He had been watching her with a predatory fascination. 

Sansa nodded. She was the prey. 

And for once, it excited her. 

"Come here, little bird." 

Sansa couldn't resist the way he called to her, stern but not quite severe, so she did as she was told. She padded over to Sandor and lowered herself onto her knees. Her hands found the right spot this time, placed delicately over one other in her lap. She waited to be addressed. 

Sandor liked this. He ran his tongue along his teeth, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk, then he scooped up Sansa's cheek. His rings were warm on her skin. 

"You're quick to learn," he mused. 

Sansa blushed up at him from beneath her lashes. He was monumental at this angle, a chiseled statue with untold strength at his disposal, and she was nothing but a diligent schoolgirl, eager to please. Her septas had always told her so. 

"W-what are the rules?" she found herself asking. 

Sandor loosed a breath that smelled of hemp smoke and rye. "The rules…." He thought for a second, absently twisting a lock of her hair. He tucked a finger under her chin when he'd made up his mind. "You follow my lead, and we stop if it's too much. Understood?" 

"Yes, I understand." 

"That's a good girl." 

Sandor brushed his thumb over Sansa's upturned lips, then roamed lower. He ran his fingertips lightly down her sweater, swirling them across her nipples. They stiffened immediately under his touch, and Sansa bit back a whimper. 

"Let's get this off." Sandor tugged her turtleneck free from the waistband of her skirt, then pulled it over her head. Bashful, Sansa drew her arms around herself, but Sandor easily pried them away. "Much better." 

She had worn one of her favorite bras, black Myrish lace with underwire for support. It pushed her apple-sized breasts up into a pretty round shape, or so Sansa would like to think. The only men who had seen them bare were Joffrey and her uncle, neither of whom were very appreciative. 

She was too shy to look Sandor in the eye.

He stuck a finger underneath one of the straps. "Take this off, too."

Sansa reached behind herself and unhooked the bra with shaky fingers, then slid it from her shoulders. Her nipples hardened the moment they met the open air. 

"Gods," Sandor groaned under his breath. "Look at you, little bird. You're lovely." 

He lifted Sansa's chin. He was grinning down at her with a hand over his bulge, which somehow looked even bigger than before. Sansa shifted her hips, a sordid attempt at calming the pulse between her legs. She had never been so hot down there, hot to the point of discomfort, but she saw all her discomfort, all her longing, reflected back tenfold in Sandor's eager eyes. 

Every single impulse she'd followed had led her here, half naked, to the feet of a dark giant. 

And he liked what he saw. 

She smiled back up at him. She didn't feel as shy anymore, so she picked up his hand and put it where his eyes had been, on the gentle slope of her breast. She was small in his hold. His fingers covered all of her, but even so, he treated her like she was a precious thing, soft porcelain that could only withstand the lightest touch. When he brushed his thumb over Sansa’s swollen nipple, warmth rippled across her skin, and her breath hitched. 

"You like that?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Good girl. You have such a nice body. So soft, so... _yielding_." He gripped her breast harder, burying his thick fingers in her tender flesh. This time, Sansa moaned, and her eyes squeezed shut from the force of it. She could hear Sandor smile. "That's a pretty sight, isn't it?" 

Sandor took her face again, and Sansa rested there, in that coarse palm that swallowed up half her face. She wouldn't have thought that this crude man, a brooding guitarist from Sow's End, would treat her more sweetly than any noble boy she had ever met. _He's a knight_ , she reminded herself. And of course he was—he was massive, seven feet of hulking muscle, trained to kill. Gooseprickles rose up on Sansa's arms and legs. _But he’ll be gentle._

"What are you thinking of?" 

Sansa blinked up at Sandor. 

"I want—I want to see you." She reached over his lap to finger the hem of his tunic. "I want to see your body too." 

Without a word, Sandor crossed his arms over himself and shed his tunic, tossing it carelessly onto the floorboards. 

"Oh," Sansa puffed, speechless. What had she expected? His body was devastating, a rigid wall of thick, contoured muscle, his tanned skin glistening with sweat. 

It was the tattoos that surprised her. 

He had hardly any bare skin at all. His body was blanketed in dark ink and darker hair. Sansa stared at the same grim image from the Heartsbane poster—three snarling hounds with pointed teeth and razor sharp claws guarding a weeping weirwood, whose trunk rose up from his abdomen and spread its leaves across his vast chest. There were faded runes scattered in the empty spaces, and there were scars, too. Bullet wounds. Sansa counted three—two beneath his ribcage, and one lower on his belly. They were deep and dark red, contrasting starkly with the expanse of black ink that covered the rest of him. 

They were the everlasting marks of war. 

Of a warrior. 

Sansa ran her fingers over everything, from the weirwood's leaves peppered with black and grey hair, to the tree's sorrowful eyes, and then down his thick abdomen, to a longer scar just above his beltline. 

"Did they hurt?" she asked. 

"Bad enough." 

Sansa hummed, and her hand lingered low, dangerously close to the swell in Sandor's jeans. 

"What do you want, little bird?" 

Startled, Sansa put her hands back in her lap and gaped innocently up at Sandor, but he knew where her eyes had been. He was watching her like a starved wolf. There was no point in lying. 

"I want to see..." she began, but her tongue got in the way. "I want to see your..." 

Her face flushed. She couldn't get the word past her lips—she didn't know what to call it amongst her girlfriends, let alone an intimidatingly handsome, much older, retired knight. She twisted her hands in her lap. 

"Go on," Sandor urged. 

Sansa only turned redder, cursing her prudishness and digging each of her fingernails into her thumb in turn. His hand was still there, on his jeans, and Sansa could already see him. He gripped himself tightly enough to display an imposing outline that ran along the top of his leg. The sight put a thousand butterflies in Sansa's belly.

_He's huge._

In the next instant, he snapped up her chin and commanded her eye. His face was steel. 

"I see you staring at my cock, little bird, and I know you want it. But you're going to have to tell me." 

Sansa winced, not from the rigidness of Sandor's hold, but from the pervasive ache between her legs. He knew just how to torment her, as though he could read her mind, poaching all her dirty thoughts and dragging them out for display. 

She would do better to surrender them.

"I want—I want to see your cock." 

Sandor sucked his teeth disapprovingly. "Close," he said, mashing her lips together like soft clay. "But where are your manners?" 

Sansa swallowed down her nerves, then replied, "I would like to see your cock, please."

"Ah, there's my good girl," he smiled. "It sounds so pretty when you say it like that, doesn't it?" He delivered a pat to her cheek before releasing her. His hands went to his silver belt buckle. "I'll give you what you want, since you asked so nicely." 

She would never have been ready for it, no matter how mature she fancied herself. Sandor was just as huge as she could have ever imagined, as long as her forearm and wide enough to fill his own fist. And he was hard. His manhood stuck straight up from his jeans, deep red, with thick veins coursing towards his swollen tip. 

Sansa had to push her mouth shut—it had somehow fallen open.

"What do you think of me, little bird?" 

"You're so…so _big_. "

Sandor forced a ragged breath through his nose. "Is that so?" 

"Yes," she answered, transfixed. He stroked himself, a ringed hand working steadily up and down his length. It was a familiar motion, Sansa knew, and it seemed so private, so intimate, that she squirmed in place. He was just as molten as her. 

"You did this to me," he growled.

Sansa looked up to meet his low-lidded eyes. "I did?" 

"Of course you did," he said, taking up her face again. "With those soft pink lips and sweet kisses. And your breasts…." His hand wandered lower. "Such pretty little nipples, as pink as your blush. I've been hard all damn night, since you cornered me in the den and brought your sweet smelling hair and even sweeter smile with you. I can't resist a girl with good manners." 

Sansa beamed—she had always prided herself on her manners, which proved time and time again to be her ultimate strength. They had even won over Sandor. 

Suddenly confident, Sansa asked, "May I touch you?" 

Sandor grunted his approval. Sansa wasn't sure exactly where to begin—Joffrey had always commanded her hand for her—so she let her fingertips find him first. She traced them lightly along a hardened vein up his length, withholding the pressure she knew he craved. His cock throbbed at her touch, surging towards his abdomen of its volition. Sansa giggled. 

"Careful, little bird," Sandor warned, but he sounded more strained than stern. Sansa liked her taste of power. With a coy smile spread across her face, she wrapped her hand at the base of his cock, resting gently against his dark pubic hair. Her fingers couldn't reach all the way around his girth, but they were strong enough, so she squeezed, hard. 

"Fuck," he groaned. "Just like that."

She found her rhythm. It was like a game. She eased her hand up his length, shifting the pressure of her fingers the same way she played scales on the piano, one wave after the next. If she performed well, he would throb in her hold. If she performed really well, he would grunt and fumble through her hair, or clasp at her shoulder as though he would fall without her support. 

As Sansa worked faster, a small bead of moisture formed at the tip, so she spread it over his reddened skin, making it gleam in the lamplight. Curiosity got the better of her, and she found herself lowering her head, bringing her mouth that close to him. She set her lips lightly on the tip, then cautiously swirled her tongue, lapping up the warm taste of salt and cotton. 

"There's a good girl," he groaned. He buried a hand in Sansa's hair and took it by the root. "I want more of that mouth." 

A protest climbed up Sansa's throat, but her mouth was full, and her thoughts were muddled by Sandor's tight claim on her head. So she did all she knew to do, all Joff had taught her to do, when bent-kneed before him. She pushed Sandor further down her throat, swallowing as much of his monstrous length as she could. And like any man, he wanted even more. He eased her head down and kept her there, her mouth filled with pulsating flesh, drool leaking from the corners. 

And he did it again. He dragged her up and down his cock, now soaked in her spit. Each thrust forced more air from her lungs, and she couldn't reclaim it fast enough. She gagged and sputtered, her scalp sore from Sandor's unforgiving grip. She couldn't perform, she couldn't play his game, so she let her mind go blank. 

In the darkness, she heard Joff's voice. 

_You're disgusting. You're worse than a whore. Whores don't gag._

"Little bird," came a different voice, a concerned voice. "Sansa, look at me." 

She blinked. She could breathe again. Sandor cupped her chin and directed her gaze to him. 

"It's too much," she whispered. Her eyes were hot with tears, and she hoped desperately that Sandor couldn't see them. 

"Shhh," he soothed. "If it's too much, we stop. Remember?" 

Sansa meekly nodded. 

"I lost you for a second there, little bird. I'm sorry." He ran his thumb over her lips, wiping away the cold strings of spit that still clung to them. "What would you like to do next?" 

"I want…" Sansa started, shifting uneasily on her knees. "I want to lie down." 

Sandor helped her up off the ground and onto his bed. She melted into his buttery soft velvet comforter, her head cradled by an equally soft pile of pillows. His scent was everywhere—smoky cedar and clove billowed up from the bedding and swallowed Sansa whole. It reminded her of Winterfell, in a way. Of the Wolfswood on a clear summer night. Nothing to fear. 

Sandor fell into bed next to her. He had shed his jeans, and laid on his back with his hands tucked behind his head. His manhood had softened some but still rested proudly over his toned stomach, the sight of which made Sansa's heart race. If he had a mind to take her, he certainly could, but instead he remained perfectly still. 

Sansa shifted onto her side, propping her head beneath her elbow. She asked him the first thing that came to mind. 

"Do you have women over often?" 

Sandor peered at her from the corner of his eye. "Why do you ask?" 

"I was only wondering," Sansa returned. She put her hand on his chest and absently traced the inky, sweat-slicked branches of the weirwood on his skin. "I imagine you would." 

"Often enough," he answered, curt. "And what of you? Do you make a habit of chasing men all over Lannisport and letting them bed you?" 

"No, I—" she was blushing, Seven forbid. "I've only ever had one boyfriend." 

Sandor hmmed but said nothing more, while Sansa circled a healed-over bullet wound beneath his ribcage. When she dipped too low, Sandor's cock stirred. Sansa pulled in her lip—something inside her had stirred, too. She still wanted him. 

"Will you touch me?" she asked. 

"Of course, little bird," Sandor said. He pulled up to sitting and placed a powerful hand on her waist. "I'll do whatever you like." 

"I've never—my boyfriend—he never used his hands. He didn't want to get them dirty." 

"Sounds like a shit boyfriend," Sandor scoffed. "Is that what you want then? My hands?" He went lower. He smoothed a wide palm over the front of Sansa's skirt and pressed down between her legs. Blood rushed to the exact spot he held, and she whimpered. 

"That's good, is it?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Let's get you out of this skirt." 

Sandor put himself between her thighs and had her skirt off in one fluid sweep. He left Sansa in nothing but her underwear, a pair of high-cut lace briefs that had matched her bra. They were her best, a gift from Uncle, which meant they had cost more than some men made in a month. Sansa was glad she had worn them, and from the gleam in Sandor's eye, she knew he liked them too. 

"Pretty panties for a pretty girl," he growled, sliding his hands up her thighs and underneath her waistband. "But they need to go." And just like that, he peeled them off and cast them to the other side of the room. 

Then she was naked, spread open for Sandor, and he looked at her as though he hadn't eaten since the equinox. He put his hands on her the crease where her hips met her thighs and ran his thumbs through her maidenhair. "Seven hells, little bird, look at you." He went lower, deftly easing her open to get a better view. He let out all his air. "You're soaked." 

Sansa made a pitiful noise—it was true. Each lapse of air on her sensitive, swollen skin made her wetness known, and Sandor's hands were right there, taunting her with their proximity. What she needed was obvious, but she knew she'd have to ask. 

"Please, Sandor," she whispered. "Please touch me." 

Sandor grinned down at her. "You want this?" He brushed his thumb over her most tender spot, the bud of flesh with its own pulse, and Sansa gasped. Pleasure surged through her like an electric shock. "Oh, you like that, do you? You like when I touch your sweet little clit?" 

Sandor touched her there again, harder, and moved in slow, rhythmic circles. Sansa gripped the bedspread and pushed her hips into him. He was giving her exactly as much as he cared to, but she was desperate for more of that exquisite friction. Nothing had ever felt so good down there, not even her own hand. He knew her body better than she did. 

"Tell me, little bird," he commanded, mercifully deepening the press of his thumb. "Tell me you like my hand on your swollen clit." 

"I like it," Sansa moaned. 

"Do you want more?" 

"M-more?"

"Do you want my fingers inside of you?" He circled her entrance, teasing her with his warmth, and she knew more than anything she needed to be filled. But when Sansa arched into his touch, he withdrew. 

"No, little bird. Answer me." His tone was grave, his eyes even more so. "Beg for it." 

"Please, Sandor," she whimpered. 

"Please what?" 

"Please put your fingers inside me. I need—I need—" 

"What do you need?" 

He combed through her maidenhair, purposefully avoiding the part of her that ached for him most. Her blood screamed for even a sliver of relief. 

"I need to feel you inside me," she said, her jaw trembling. "I need your fingers inside me. I need you, please. "

"Good girl. I'll give you what you want." 

He eased one finger inside of her, down to the metal band of his ring, and ten times the electricity rippled through her. Sounds she had never made before tumbled from her lips, but she couldn’t stop herself. His finger was warm, and thick, and strong, and he knew just how to use it. His touch was as deft as it had been on the guitar. He moved in and out of her, winding his finger in circles, igniting places Sansa didn’t even know of. He pressed upward, into one of those spots, and she felt herself melt, as though she was filled with liquid gold. She would surely gild Sandor’s hand. 

When his thumb found her clit again, Sansa gasped. She liked the heat. She liked how every gentle, insistent touch made her pulse flare more wildly than the last. 

“More,” she breathed. She didn’t bother to open her eyes. “Please, Sandor. I want more of you.” 

Without hesitation, he put another finger inside her slickness. He stretched her ever so slightly, but it was a sweet hurt, and Sansa relaxed into him. She pushed against his thumb, and ground herself against his fingers, down to the inflexible ridge of his rings.

When she dared to look down at herself, at Sandor's strong hands working steadily on her flower, all that viscous, glowing warmth threatened to burst. He was drawing something from deep inside her, the same way he had coaxed melodies from his guitar. His fingers again found that sweet spot, the gilded spot, and he massaged it with twice the strength. Sansa’s blood hummed; her pulse roared in her ears. She would empty herself on him. 

But just as she was about to let go, he withdrew. He put a coarse palm on her thigh to keep her open, and extracted his other hand, his fingers glistening by the lamplight. Sansa throbbed in protest of his sudden absence.

“What a mess you are, little bird,” Sandor teased, inspecting the stickiness she left on his skin. His steel eyes cut straight to the quick of her, gleaming with a wayward amusement. “What would your septas think of you? Spread apart for a stranger, dripping all over the covers. Is this what they teach all you noble young ladies at the Sevenschool?” 

Sansa let out a pitiful whimper. Sandor grinned. 

“I thought so. Here,” he stooped over her, sliding his fingers into her mouth. “Be a good girl, and clean up your mess.” 

Sansa let herself be filled. She sucked away her own nectar—sweet, salty, sticky. Though she had never tasted herself, she knew it was only right. She liked keeping clean. Sansa wrapped her lips around his fingers to pull them deeper, running her tongue over the runes on his rough skin. 

“Hungry little bird,” Sandor growled. He stroked himself with his other hand—he was rock hard, and so, so close to her. Sansa made a muffled, pathetic noise. She was just as hungry as him, if not more. 

“No,” Sandor scolded. He gripped her jaw. “Look at me.” 

Sansa did as she was told and held onto those glittering grey eyes, partially obscured by the dark hair that fell over his face. Even with half his face black and ruined, his features were heroic, lifted from the most robust likeness of the warrior imaginable. _There are songs about him_ , Sansa thought. _The warrior kissed by flame_. 

As if he had read her mind, he said, “The little bird likes this picture.” His hand moved deliberately along his length, she could tell, but she didn't dare lower her eyes. “You told me yourself. You think this old dog is handsome. Very handsome. That’s what you said, isn't it?” 

He was teasing her again, playing their game, but his face was stone. Sansa squirmed. 

"Yes,” she whined. 

Sandor smiled down at her, softening momentarily. “I thought so.” 

“Do—do you want me?” Sansa asked. 

Sandor tilted his head. “Do I want you?” He took her by the hips and pulled her against him so that his swollen sex rested firmly against hers. He throbbed there. “I’ve never wanted anything more.” 

Sansa moaned—he was heavy and warm on her clit like white iron. 

“Tell me,” she whispered. 

Sandor’s eyes narrowed to predatory slits. “Tell you what?” 

“Tell me what you want to do to me.” 

He snarled as though she had somehow wounded him—until she realized she had only stoked his appetite. "I want to fuck you, little bird." He lifted his hips, ran his length along her slick, sore entrance. "Gods know I've wanted to fuck you all night, so that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to fill that sweet, noble little cunt of yours with every last inch of me. It's what you deserve, for flying so far from your pretty home and landing in a stranger's bed. You're going to take my cock like a good little bird, and you're going to like it." 

Sansa bit her lip so fiercely she drew blood—she wanted the same. She was aching for him, no matter how large he was. She would be a good girl and take it all. 

“Will—will it hurt?” her voice was a husk of itself. 

Sandor laughed, and Sansa writhed against him. He was tormenting her. She was spread open, sopping wet, so agitated that even his breath on her skin lit her ablaze. She scooped up one of her breasts and traced her hardened nipple, desperate for even the slightest bit of relief. And still Sandor grinned, like a wolf with its claws sunk into a trembling rabbit. 

“Do you think I want to hurt you?” he answered at last. 

Sansa shook her head. 

“That’s right. I’ll be gentle.” He ran his fingers through her maidenhair, then let his palm rest there. “I’ll go slow. Would you like that?” 

Sansa nodded. 

“Use your words. Use your pretty manners like your septas taught you.” 

“Please,” she started, her voice wavering. She was all tremors—her heartbeat flitted in her chest, and her thighs quivered around Sandor’s, which were thick and hard as the trunk of the mightiest ironwood. Without him holding her steady, she was sure she would float to the rafters. “Please, Sandor. I want—I need you inside of me.” 

“Is that so?” He took hold of himself, and bracing one hand on her maidenhair, he put the swollen tip of his cock against her entrance. He let a mere fraction of an inch sink inside her. 

Sansa didn't know if it was a threat or a gift. 

“Beg,” he rasped. 

“Sandor,” she whined, weak, but he glared down at her with a wolf’s eyes. 

She would have to surrender.

"I've wanted you all night, too," she confessed. "I c-couldn't stop thinking about you—about your strength—and your hands on me. I wanted them all over me, ever since I first saw you. And I need you to fill me. I want your cock so badly. I need you inside of me, please. I promise I'll be good. I promise." 

“Mmm,” he groaned. "The little bird sings such sweet songs. I wouldn't dare let her down.” 

Sandor pushed into her, only an inch, and Sansa knew immediately—it was a gift. There was a fiery pressure as he stretched her open, all hot and full, but it was good pressure. Unlike her first time, she was wet enough to take Sandor in. 

"How's that, little bird?" He looked down at her the same way he had when she first touched him, like he was hurting, but in a good way. He trailed his fingers across Sansa's belly, watching her intently. "Do you want more?" 

Sansa remembered her promise, and nodded. Sandor eased himself deeper inside of her, holding himself so tensely that thick veins danced along his muscles and rivulets of sweat trickled from his temples. He was keeping his promise too, to be gentle, though Sansa could read the restraint on his tightly drawn features. If he wanted to go faster, he didn't, for her sake. 

Even going slowly, his width forced her open and split her belly in two. But Sansa had grown accustomed to the heat. She clenched around him, drawing him deeper with all her wetness, until she was certain she had taken him all. 

Sandor stopped. His pulse throbbed inside her. 

"Look at you," he said softly. "Such a brave girl. I know it's a lot, but we're almost there." 

"A-almost?" 

Sansa chanced a look down, only to discover that Sandor had put just half his length inside of her. She couldn't stop the feeble whimper that dropped from her lips, or the sudden quaking heartbeat between her legs. He was a muscled giant descending on her, a girl who weighed nine stone soaking wet, and worst of all, she wanted him. She wanted to be broken. 

"Can I have the rest, please?" 

Sandor exhaled, long and slow. His hand found her face. "Of course, sweet girl," he answered, sweeping his thumb across her cheekbone. "You've earned it." 

And just like that, she was full. Not almost full, but truly, undeniably stuffed. Sandor reached every single corner of her, igniting her frayed nerves like tinder. He went to the deepest part of her belly, and hit a spot so tender that Sansa cried out. She quickly put a hand to her mouth to quiet herself, but Sandor didn't like that. He pried her hand away and dropped down, pinning her wrists on either side of her head. He loomed over her like a solid shadow, his darkly tattooed chest heaving, and his weirwood pendant hanging low before her. 

"Is it too much?" he asked, his throat wound tight. 

Sansa shook her head. 

"Good." He fell on her, shielding her body with the warm press of his dense muscles, but somehow withholding their weight. His fingers slid up from her wrists and entwined with hers. "You have to tell me, little bird. I can't—" 

Sansa shifted her hips, unintentionally bringing him that much deeper, to her absolute end. Sandor's reactionary growl reverberated just as deeply against her ribs—it was low, carnal, famished. His head dropped to hers. 

"Oh, little bird," he gently chided, planting careful kisses across her forehead and down her jaw. "You have no idea how bloody good you feel. I could gut you, you tight little thing. But you let me in, didn't you? Your little cunt practically dragged my cock inside, with all your sweet silkiness. I think you like me here. I think you want to be gutted." 

Sansa's face twisted from the effort of caging a moan that desperately wanted to fly. _He knows_ , was all she could think as he put more of those tender kisses on her skin. His mouth was at her neck, and each press of his half-rough lips sent more blood rushing to where he was buried inside her. _How does he know_? 

“That’s a pretty face," he breathed in her ear. "I'll count that as a yes. Are you ready, little bird? Do you want me to fuck you?" 

“Yes," she whispered, breathless. 

With his rough cheek flush against her own, he began to move inside her. He was just as deliberate as before, easing himself out by a hair, then pushing gently back in. His abs worked rigidly against her belly, his control palpable in every tentative stroke. She was grateful for his delicacy. No matter how brave she was, Sandor was absolutely massive. 

Only briefly did she let herself think of Joffrey, of his pitiful size by comparison. But Joffrey hurt. She hadn’t truly wanted him there. 

It was different with Sandor. 

Her filled her entirely, so much so that her whole belly had become one raw nerve. Everything was aflame, if fire only glowed and didn’t burn, and she loved it. She let herself smile against Sandor’s scarred cheek. She drew in all her bravery from the smoke and salt that drifted from his skin and eclipsed her air. 

When Sandor next pulled out from her, Sansa met his thrust head on, rocking her hips to win all of him back. He let out a strangled groan into her hair. 

“Little bird…” 

It was a warning. 

His following thrust was thunder, slow and bone deep, and he rolled to all the way to her end, stopping only when he collided with her red-hot center. This time, there was nothing to stifle her moans. They slipped from her lips like song, and hadn’t Sandor told her how much he liked her voice? So he went faster. He was fucking her now, Sansa was certain. His palms dug into hers as he dropped into her over, and over, and over again. His sweat-kissed skin glided across hers, and she drowned in his scent, which practically rained down from his armpits, musky, earthy, and so, so masculine. 

But she was fucking him, too. Matching his steady movements, bringing him just as far she wanted him. It was a fun game. She liked clenching around him, feeling each and every throb of his cock along her achingly stretched walls. His breath was heavy against her ear, jagged as a saw, and if she held onto him just right, it would catch in his throat. That was her favorite sound of all. 

That sound let her know her own power. 

He had teased her, but he needed her.

When his lips fell on her again, she gasped. So many wicked words had spilled from them tonight, and he sealed them into her skin with every kiss. He lingered at her neck, laying those same urgent draws on her already tender flesh. Then he peppered kisses at her jaw, her cheekbones, her forehead. He saved her mouth for last, and Sansa moaned as soon as their lips connected. He tasted better than last time. She pulled as much smoke and liquor from his tongue as she could manage, and he swallowed just as much of her. 

“Do you like it,” he growled into her mouth, his breath thick and warm. “Do you like getting fucked by a stranger?” 

Sansa responded in a whimper, but Sandor went suddenly still inside her. He pulled away to force her eye. 

He wanted his answer.

Sansa searched for it in his face, in his cutting eyes and his mottled skin. She thought of the Stranger, that bleak, unknowable god. 

True, Sandor was the dark sky above her, his thick, heavily inked muscles blotting out the lamplight. But he was no stranger. He had power enough to crush her, but he withheld. His iron grip on her hands was a promise, a solemn vow. _I could_ , he was telling her. _Your bones would shatter like glass if I wanted. But I won't_. 

Her fragility was his to protect. 

She knew him, then. 

“You’re not a stranger,” she let out in a strangled whisper. “You’re a knight.” 

Sandor scowled. 

“Knights don’t run from battle," he said, his voice as bitter as steel. "They don’t set down their swords." And then, "My brother was a knight." 

Sansa only had a split second to think of a courtesy, but she found it— 

"He was no true knight."

Sandor's face contorted into something bestial, dense cords of muscle tensing at his neck. His hand clamped down on Sansa’s throat, not so hard that she couldn’t breathe, but hard enough to remind her of his unspoken vow. All over again heat blossomed inside her, like Melisandre's field of firebright flowers, and met with Sandor's own heat. Their pulses burned together. 

Sansa didn't dare look away. 

“Tell me again,” he rasped, rough as unhewn stone. “Tell me what I am.” 

He slammed his entire length into her, and Sansa gasped. 

“You’re—you’re a knight,” she choked out. “A brave knight of the Kingsforce.” 

Another thrust. 

“How do you know I’m brave, little bird?”

“Because you knew—” and another, so forceful that stars sparkled in her vision “—you knew when to leave. That takes more courage than a whole army combined.” 

Sandor looked down at Sansa like he might truly break her. All it would take is one swift squeeze at her throat, and that would be the end. 

Instead, he rode her harder, his powerful body descending on hers like a thunderstorm. Sansa watched his weirwood pendant dance in time to his ruthless pace. Each thrust grounded her, charged her with that warm, sweet glow. She was certain her insides were as bright as the sun itself, and if he kept moving, kept driving into her very core, she would collapse on herself like a star. 

She groped at Sandor’s chest for anchorage. Her fingers worked over his scars, slick with sweat, but she rested her hand over his heart. It beat in time their shared pulse. 

“Sandor,” she whined. “Sandor, please.” 

"Please what?" he grunted, testing his grip at her throat. His eyes were still wild. "Are you close, little bird? Do you want to come?" 

Sansa's brows stitched together, and she managed only the slightest nod. 

If he didn’t slow down, she would burst, but that’s exactly she wanted. She was tightening around him, desperate for every single flare of pleasure. She felt only heat—Sandor’s breath, the sweat on his skin, the friction of him baring down inside her. And there was her own heat, the sun that blazed at her center. She needed the heat more than anything. She knew the only way to get rid of her heat was with more. 

She swallowed, savoring the feel of five savage fingers sunk into her windpipe. 

She couldn't forget her manners. 

"Please," she said, piecing together what precious few words she could. "Please can I come?" 

"Go ahead," Sandor answered in a tight rasp. "Be a good little bird and come on my cock." 

All it took was one more stroke, and she was there. 

“Sandor,” she whimpered, one last time, as if it were incantation. 

Her body sang. Everything was drenched in warm light, every drop of blood, every cell in her body. Her pulse had never been so loud or so strong, ringing ceaselessly beneath her skin. Sandor must have felt it, too. Her name fell from his lips, and then he was gone from her. Warm seed spilled onto her abdomen to the tune of their ragged breath.

Sandor had turned her to a puddle on the bed, a cloud fallen to earth. Her limbs were light as air and her head even lighter, still high in the heavens. She would be perfectly content to rest here forever, with soft velvet at her fingertips, because she finally understood. Sandor had helped her achieve what she had never done on her own, because she was always so frightened of being bad. But how could it be bad? 

She felt so good. 

"What are you dreaming of, little bird?" 

Sansa's eyes flickered open. Sandor watched her from above, his muscular body still stationed between her with his mighty palms nestled atop her thighs. She hadn't noticed herself smiling, but she was. A lazy grin rested on her cheeks, and she had no intention of shedding it. 

"I've never done that before," she replied. "I've never finished." 

Sandor made a grunt of disapproval. "That's a shame." 

He climbed from the bed, grabbed his disheveled tunic, and wiped his mess from Sansa's stomach. She was almost disappointed to see it go. "Your noble little boyfriend doesn't know how to make his lady come?"

Sansa shook her head. She pressed herself up against the pillows, her weight an unfamiliar and unwelcome burden. Sandor threw his tunic to the floor and stretched out at her side. 

"Joffrey didn't care." 

"Joffrey," Sandor repeated, the name curling from his lips like acrid smoke. "What's his family name?" 

"Baratheon," she sighed. 

Sandor roared with laughter. Sansa grit her teeth and drew in her knees, feeling suddenly much too naked. Her heart sunk in her chest like a block of lead—everything always led back to Joff. 

"Tell me, how far from the throne is he? Fifth in line? Sixth?" 

"Thirteenth," Sansa said, her throat tight. 

"Bloody brilliant," he spat, still beside himself. He rested a hand in his dense patch of pubic hair and scratched his chest with the other. "Never thought I would fuck a princess." 

"I'm not—" Sansa started, her voice broken and wet. "He's not my boyfriend anymore. He left me before I went to college." 

Sandor noticed her damp eyes and quieted. 

"Don't be cross," he told her. "You have to forgive a rundown dog for making light of his old masters. That boy's a fool for leaving you behind, I can tell you that much." 

"Y-you think so?" 

"I know so. Come on, little bird. Come close." 

Sandor swept Sansa to his side, a strong arm braced firmly around her shoulders. She nestled at his armpit, bound by his spell of cedar and smoke. His fingers worked gently through her hair. 

"Sandor?" she queried, peering up at him. 

"What is it?" 

"Do you like me?" 

Sandor smiled, and not to mock her. He looked almost sad. "Of course I like you. I like you more than I should." 

Sansa fingered the weirwood pendant that hung from his neck, taking care to trace every branch and burl. "How do you mean?"

"You're a pretty girl," he began with a sigh. "And that's just the thing, isn't it? Pretty girl, pretty school, pretty dreams. You'll meet a noble boy and have his noble children. You'll sing them all your sweet songs in your perfectly groomed estate, and have the prettiest little life. I almost envy you, but I don't. Riches, beauty, titles—they're sweet poison. They're nightshade with a spoonful of sugar." 

Sansa couldn't think of a reply, so she held fast to Sandor's necklace. He hadn’t intended to ridicule her, she was certain, but his words still stung. He knew just as well as she did that her life was not her own, that her fate had been sealed at birth. She would meet her prince, take his name, make his children, raise them, and then succumb to the Stranger. Like every other noble girl. 

But her prince had left her. 

"I have my own dreams," she let out in a hushed whisper. She didn't know if she meant to reassure herself or Sandor. 

"What are your dreams, little bird?"

"I'm going to write music. New music, like no one's ever heard—like Heartsbane, but even different than that. I don't even care if I'm famous. I just need to make music. It's the only thing I have left." 

"That's a good dream," he breathed, his eyes dropping shut. His hand was still buried in her tangles of auburn hair, and she liked it there. "You'll have to play me something next time." 

Sansa smiled—next time. She would see him again. But her heart dropped a second later. She still needed to get home. 

"Sandor?" 

"Mm?" he answered, not bothering to open his eyes. His breath was deep and slow, almost a snore. 

"I have to get home. It's almost—" Sansa glanced at her watch, and frowned. "It's so late." 

"In the morning, little bird," he whispered. "I'll take you in the morning." 

And he was gone, sound asleep. 

Sansa stayed awake. She watched his chest rise and fall. She memorized the neat lines of ink woven on his skin and the feel of his body heat as it meshed it with hers. Their bodies fit so well together, she decided. An arm draped delicately over his stomach, her breasts against his wide ribcage, a knee perched on his sturdy thigh. There was a cushioned spot just beneath his armpit that made the perfect pillow, and still, Sansa couldn't find sleep. 

Over and over, his words played back in her head. 

_I like you more than I should._

He had spoken those words so sorrowfully, as if to apologize. But for what? Sansa knew she wasn't imagining their shared chemistry. She would never forget the way the words _good girl_ dropped from his half-burned lips, and she certainly wouldn't be able to ignore the soreness between her legs tomorrow. The mere thought of sitting in her theory class, squirming uncomfortably in her seat with thoughts of Sandor buried inside her—it made her pulse rage all over again. 

But Sansa shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be sharing a stranger's bed. She should be in her dormitory, asleep, virtue intact. If Uncle found out—

No. 

Uncle was miles and miles away, and Sandor wasn't any man, he was a knight. If she stayed here, held tightly against his chest, no harm would come to her. 

But she couldn't stay forever. 

The longer she idled, the more the girls in her dorm would talk. It would only be a matter of time. 

A few hours passed before dawn crept through the curtains. At first light, Sansa slid from Sandor's arm and silently collected her scattered clothing. She redressed, keeping an eye on him, but he didn't he stir. If she wanted to slip from his life, now was her chance. She could spare herself whatever inevitable pain she would bring on by sharing a bed with a Kingsforce defector from Sow's End. 

But her feet carried her to his desk. Her hand found a pen, and the pen a scrap of paper. She scrawled her phone number in her prettiest script, and signed it ' _your little bird_ '. She hoped she was the only little bird he knew. 

She padded down the hallway and found her shoes and bag where she had left them. Stranger perked up from his post in the corner of the room and tilted his head at her. Sansa went to him, delivered a necessary goodbye kiss, then left. 

—

Two agonizing weeks went by, with midterm exams proving to be quite an unwelcome distraction. Sansa spent all her evenings hunched over her composition books in the library, the practice room, or most frequently the common room, her eyes glued to the shared dormitory telephone instead of her notes. 

She tried not to think of him, but it took so much effort that she spent all her time thinking of him anyway. Sometimes she swore she made up their evening—it was a dream, her tryst with a grisly warrior, a harrowing half-giant. She would never do something so reckless as spending the night with a man she scarcely knew. A big man. A scarred man. A knight. 

Right? 

But her pulse remembered. At every turn of the day, it would flutter at the memory of his sweet words, his expert touch, and best of all, his manhood. She longed for his call. She wanted him to remember, too. A lady shouldn't have to do her own courting. A lady shouldn't court a hound. But if she found her way into a hound's bed, and if he treated her gently, and spoke to her softly, how wrong could it be? 

These thoughts plagued Sansa. They weren't like her—not one bit. The only remedy she could find was making music, so in between her classes and her last minute study sessions, she would take out her Minimarq, and she would sing. 

The night before her advanced theory exam, Sansa was stationed at a study carrel in the far corner of the common room, the desktop cluttered with textbooks and notebooks, pens, pencils, and two mugs of bitter black tea gone cold. She had put her back to the other girls and tried to read with her hands cupped over her ears, but it was no use. Every word on the page blurred into the next as though she had spilled her tea all over them. When she blinked, the paper was as pristine as ever. 

She nearly jumped from her seat when the telephone rang. Weakly, she turned to see Beth saunter from the sofa and pick up the receiver. She was too far to hear, but from the sly twinkle in Beth's eye, Sansa knew she was flirting. 

She had only just given up and gone back to her books when Beth's singsong voice swept across the room. 

"Sansa dear, it seems you have a phone call. From a man." 

All the girls giggled, and a cold sweat broke out on Sansa's palms.

"He says his name is Sandor," Beth went on, tauntingly. "He sounds cross. You'd better hurry." 

Sansa leapt up and darted through the tangle of study tables and plush armchairs full of her gawking peers. She tried to ignore their titters and gapes as she passed, but her cheeks only grew more flushed. She snatched up the receiver from Beth without a word and pressed it to her ear. 

"Sandor?" she asked, breathless. 

"Little bird." 

Sansa's heart fluttered at the sound of her sweet pet name. She hadn't dreamt it. "I thought—I thought you might have forgotten me." 

"No," he answered gruffly. A few seconds passed and he added, "I'm not very good on the phone." 

Sansa listened to him breathe on the other end. She heard a light crackle and deep inhale, followed by stout exhale and a cough. He was smoking a joint. It made her smile, for some reason. 

"I wrote a song," she offered up. 

"Is that so?" 

"Mhm." She smiled even wider, almost laughing. "I made it with the Minimarq. I've gotten much better since I saw you last. You see, I was experimenting with pass filters, and if you set the oscillators just right, it almost makes its own voice, like a ghost. But you have to make sure you have the contour and emphasis turned to—" 

"Do you want to come over?" 

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "C-come over? When?"

"Tomorrow. I'll make dinner, and you can play me your song." 

Sansa looked to her cluttered carrel. Tomorrow was so soon, and she would have her harp practical the next day, but… 

She thought of Sandor, stretched out on his green sofa, a joint poised between two thick, ringed fingers, and her pulse thrummed. She could practically taste the hemp smoke on his lips and the warm ember of his burned skin. 

And she knew there would be an empty spot beside him. 

"Little bird," he growled, gently. 

"I'll come," Sansa replied. "And I'll sing for you." 

From miles away, she heard him smile. 

"Good girl. Be here at seven," he said, just before the receiver clicked. 

Sansa pressed the phone to her chest and fell against the wall. 

She liked him more than she should, but oh, did she like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Aaaand more will be coming! [Another Nova is on the way](https://youtu.be/fWn0jJu-pyU) \- the first chapter will be posted tomorrow! 
> 
> 'Til then!


End file.
